Hi there, I'm 6'1" white male Xtrabeing, welcome to the Fleshpots. Please don't be offended, but I like myself rather a lot. When stranger-girls shout out they want to have your baby to you, it tends to affect the ole ego a tad. 400 xwatchers come here daily and you're 1.

Ass gets kicked in this next installment of Lives. You won’t want to miss it!

“Lives of the Miserable 2: Mischief”

by Xwarper UtopiaX DystopiaX

During the festival of Eid al-Hada, a ram must be sacrificed because blah blah who cares. After killing and stringing the ram up into a tree for butchering, a gaggle of boys (they are always around in groups of 10-50, usually begging for presents and money because idiot white people always give it to them) rushed to the dying animal with a pair of scissors, snipped off its balls, and ran away with their prize. I asked the closest mother why, she said they’re going to grill it — the balls are a prized treat for the boys. I asked, do the girls eat it too? Of course not, she said. They would get pregnant with a goat.

Africans are dumb as shit. Basically, they never grow up. You are dealing with 200 pound children. If you go into interactions with that mindset, things go alright, but if you expect anything adult from them, you’ll be disappointed and frustrated at every turn. They believe in everything you can list — ghosts, angels, demons, curses, blessings, and magic. Oh, and magic. They love it. I was party to a number of village magic battles, where charms and counter-charms were buried at people’s doorsteps, protective wards were made, and potions were snuck into tea. It’s a huge deal, and everyone pays big money (for them) to the local shamans and witch doctors to get all these magical trinkets.” — Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa, 2015

“I got an idea,” Dontel said.

Antoine puffed out several puffs of ganja/weed and smiled lazily at his good friend Dontel. Dontel was always uptight and a thinkin’ dude. He needed to relax more. Generously, Antoine handed his good friend Dontel the spliff, but Dontel just batted it away.

“Dontel,” Antoine said in a cultured, deep, attractive voice he had picked up from TV. “You are a wise man. A very brazen man. When you wave your guns around at me, I fear for my safety, but I know what you are going to say makes sense. Lay it on me, my brother. What is it you want me to do to or for you?”

“I could acquire a car for you, good Dontel, but what pray tell would you do with the dream vehicle?”

Dontel screamed, “I don’t need no dream vehicle! I ain’t askin’ for a Porsche. Just let me have some piece-of-shit Chevy, something Dee-troit, maybe a piece of rollin’ iron that can do 125 on the highway — if that ain’t askin’ for too much.”

“Surely. I can do that for you.” Pause. “But what’s in it for me?”

Dontel cooled down like ice doused on flame, dropped down to a ripped brown bean-bag chair, and slouched his head between his arms. “You a bad nigger.”

“I’m only asking.”

“A bad, bad nigger.”

“Please let us be friends.”

“You, nigger, you ain’t got no friends.”

“Dontel,” Antoine said airily, waving a casual, lazy hand at the door. “I must ask you to leave my domicile. And never return.”

Dontel threw himself at Antoine’s neck, readying himself to choke the fucker, but managed to get enough self-restraint to storm off and never come back. Down the hall, in 505, he rapped on the apartment knocker. Once. Twice. Three times. An enormously fat black women with ringed onion snacks in her hands answered the door, and blinked stupidly, quizzically several times while staring at the pissed-off, but slightly calmer Dontel.

“You high too, shorty?” Dontel said, forcing his way into the apartment. Maria LaBleeda, as they called the nigger bitch with the 6-day period (she shouldn’t have confided in her 14-year-old boy schoolmates at P.S. 128), watched him as he entered. Maria LaBleeda returned to her all-black soap opera starring, DeMichael, Luke, and LoPresto. LoPresto was so cute. He had little-bitty dreads you could die for. Maria adjusted her skirt over her tremendously fat legs, like a black tutu on a hippo from the veldts of Africa.

Dontel seethed. “Woman, I need a car.”

Maria simpered. “I’m so glad you don’ call me ‘bitch,’ Don–boy. I don’ like it when you do dat. Wanna bite?” She held up the package and shook it.

Angrily, he knocked it out of her hand where it spilled on the floor, spreading yellow turd-looking corn products in a magic circle. “I’m’a gonna kill — SOMEONE — if I don’ get me a car REAL SOON!!!“

“Well, I never said I couldn’t hook you up with some wheels, Don. I really like you.” She batted her eyes. “D’ya like me?”

“Car, bitch. I a kill you. Real soon.”

Maria stood up lumberingly, straightening her black pantyhose with the runs in it. She staggered to the bay window and fell forward onto it, barely catching onto the glass in time. If not for that, she would have cracked her head a good one. Looking through the smeary dirty glass into the city, Maria began a soliloquoy.

“I’s a lonely woman, Donny. A lonely woman. After dark, I sit here by myself, it so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat.” (“Through your fat chest?” Dontel muttered to himself.) “And I ask myself, is this all there is? This life? God is on the other side, I know that. I wanna be God’s best bitch, the shorty he turns to. I know God looks like Denzel Washington and sounds like Morgan Freeman, and sonny Jesus is the spitting image of my Uncle Carl, who passed away last summer. He was only 61. Why — WHY — is that all the menfolk in my family die so young?”

Dontel was standing behind her. His dark reflection in the glass showed an explosively, volcanically, demonically aroused figure. He extended his hand slowly. Maria LaBleeda put the keys in them, and he closed his fingers around them.